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ECHOES 


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THE   SABINE    FARM 


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Copyright,  by  A.  C.  McClurg  and  Co.,  18925 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1895. 


S&nitorrsfto 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


PUBLISHER'S    NOTE. 


HPHE  illustrations  by  MR.  EDMUND  H.  GARRETT  which 
appear  in  this  volume  were  made  for  MR.  FRANCIS 
WILSON,  out  of  whose  suggestion  the  book  originally  grew. 
They  were  first  printed  in  the  limited  edition  which 
was  published  privately,  early  in  1892,  by  Mr.  Wilson 
himself. 


OME,  dear  old  friend,  and  with  us  twain 

To  calm  Digentian  groves   repair; 
The  turtle  coos  his  sweet  refrain 

And  posies  are  a-blooming  there; 
And  there  the  romping  Sabine  girls 
Bind  myrtle  in  their  lustrous  curls. 


I  know  a  certain  ilex-tree 

Whence  leaps  a  fountain  cool  and  clear. 
Its  voices  summon  you  and  me ; 

Come,  let  us  haste  to  share  its  cheer ! 
Methinks  the  rapturous  song  it  sings 
Should  woo  our  thoughts  from  mortal  things. 


TO  M.  L.   GRAY. 

But,  good  old  friend,  I  charge  thee  well, 
Watch  thou  my  brother  all  the  while, 

Lest  some  fair  Lydia  cast  her  spell 
Round  him  unschooled  in  female  guile. 

Those  damsels  have  no  charms  for  me; 

Guard  thou  that  brother,  — I'll  guard  thee! 


And,  lo,  sweet  friend!  behold  this  cup, 
Round  which  the  garlands  intertwine; 

With  Massic  it  is  foaming  up, 

And  we  would  drink  to  thee  and  thine. 

And  of  the  draught  thou  shalt  partake, 

Who  lov'st  us  for  our  father's  sake. 


Hark  you!  from  yonder  Sabine  farm 

Echo  the  songs  of  long  ago, 
With  power  to  soothe  and  grace  to  charm 

What  ills  humanity  may  know; 
With  that  sweet  music  in  the  air, 
Tis  Love  and  Summer  everywhere. 


TO  M.  L.   GRAY. 

So,  though  no  grief  consumes  our  lot 
(Since  all  our  lives  have  been  discreet), 

Come,  in  this  consecrated  spot, 
Let 's  see  if  pagan  cheer  be  sweet. 

Now,  then,  the  songs ;  but,  first,  more  wine. 

The  gods  be  with  you,   friends  of  mine! 


E.  F. 


QDNTENTS-OF -THE  BOOK 


PAGE 

To  M.  L.  GRAY         E.  F.   .     .  .  5 

AN  INVITATION  TO  MAECENAS    .     .     Odes,  III.  29    .  E.  F.    .     .  .  13 

CHLORIS  PROPERLY  REBUKED    .     .    Odes,  III.  15    .  R.  M.  F.  .  .  16 

To  THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BANDUSIA  .     Odes,  III.  13   .  E.  F.    .    .  .  18 

To  THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BANDUSIA R.  M.  F.  .  .  20 

THE  PREFERENCE  DECLARED    .     .     Odes,  I.  38  .     .  E.  F.    .    .  .  22 

A  TARDY  APOLOGY.     I Epode  XIV.     .  R.  M.  F.  .  .  23 

A  TARDY  APOLOGY.    II E.  F.    .     .  .  25 

To  THE  SHIP  OF  STATE    ....    Odes,  I.  14  .     .  R.  M.  F..  .  27 

QUITTING  AGAIN Odes,  III.  26    .  E.  F.    .    .  .  29 

SAILOR  AND  SHADE Odes,  I.  28  .     .  E.  F.    .     .  .  31 

LET  Us  HAVE  PEACE Odes,  I.  27  .    .  E.  F.    .     .  .  34 

To  QUINTUS  DELLIUS Odes,  II.  3  .     .  E.  F.    .     .  .  36 

POKING  FUN  AT  XANTHIAS    .    .     .    Odes,  II.  4  .    .  R.  M.  F.  .  .  38 

To  ARISTIUS  Fuscus Odes,  I.  22  .     .  E.  F.    .     .  .  41 

To  ALBIUS  TIBHLLUS.    I Odes,  1. 33  .     .  E.  F.    .    .  .  43 

To  ALBIUS  TIBULLUS.    II R.  M.  F.  .  .  45 

To  MAECENAS Odes,  I.  i     .     .  R.  M.  F.  .  .  47 

To  His  BOOK Epistle  XX.      .  R.  M.  F.    .  .  50 

FAME  vs.  RICHES Ars  Poetica,  line  323,  E.  F.    ...  52 

THE  LYRIC  MUSE Ars  Poetica,  line  301,  E.  F.    .     .  .  53 

A  COUNTERBLAST  AGAINST  GARLIC,    Epode  III.  .     .  R.  M.  F.  .  .  56 

AN  EXCUSE  FOR  LALAGE  ....     Odes,  II.  5  .     .  R.  M.  F.  .  .  58 


IO  CONTENTS  OF   THE  BOOK. 

PAGE 

AN  APPEAL  TO  LYCE  ....     Odes,  IV.  13    .     .  R.  M.  F.    .     .  60 

A  ROMAN  WINTER-PIECE.    I.    .    Odes,  I.  9   .    .     .  E.  F.    .    .     .  62 

A  ROMAN  WINTER-PIECE.    II R.  M.  F.  .     .  64 

To  DIANA Odes,  III.  22    .     .  R.  M.  F.   .     .  66 

To  His  LUTE Odes,  I.  32  .    .    .  E.F.    .     .     .  67 

To  LEUCONOE.    I Odes,  I.  n        .    .  R.  M.F.   .     .  69 

To  LEUCONOE.    II E.  F.    .    .    .  70 

To  LIGURINUS.    I Odes,  IV.  10    .     .  R.  M.  F.    .     .  71 

To  LIGURINUS.    II E.  F.    .    .    .  73. 

THE  HAPPY  ISLES Epode  XIV.  Iine4i,  E.  F.    ...  75 

CONSISTENCY Ars  Poetica      .     .  E.  F.    .     .     .  77 

To  POSTUMUS Odes,  II.  14      .    .  R.  M.  F.   .     .  79 

To  MISTRESS  PYRRHA.    I.     .     .    Odes,  I.  5    ...  E.  F.    ...  82 

To  MISTRESS  PYRRHA.    II R.  M.F.   .     .  84 

To  MELPOMENE Odes,  III.  30    .     .  E.  F.    .     .     .  85. 

To  PHYLLIS.    I Odes,  IV.  n     ..  E.F.    ...  87 

To  PHYLLIS.    II R.  M.F.  .    .  90 

To  CHLOE.    I Odes,  I.  23  .    .     .  R.  M.  F.   .     .  93 

To  CHLOE.    II E.  F.    .     .     .  94 

A  PARAPHRASE E.  F.    .     .     .  95 

ANOTHER  PARAPHRASE E.  F.    .     .    .  96 

A  THIRD  PARAPHRASE E.  F.     .     .     .  97 

A  FOURTH  PARAPHRASE E.  F.    .    .    .  98 

To  MAECENAS Odes,  I.  20  ...  E.  F.    ...  99 

To  BARINE Odes  II.  8    .     .     .  R.  M.F.   .     .  101 

THE  RECONCILIATION.    I.     .     .     Odes,  III.  9      ..  E.F.    ...  103 

THE  RECONCILIATION.    II R.  M.F.   .     .  105 

THE  ROASTING  OF  LYDIA     .     .     Odes,  I.  25        .     .  R.M.F.   .     .  108" 

To  GLYCERA Odes,  I.  19       .     .  R.  M.F.   .     .  no 

To  LYDIA.    I Odes,  I.  13  ...  E.F.    ...  112 

To  LYDIA.    II R.  M.F.   .     .  114 

To  QUINTIUS  HIRPINUS   .     .    .     Odes,  II.  ii      .     .  E.  F.    .     .     .  nfr 


CONTENTS  OF    THE  BOOK.  II 

PAGE 

WINE,  WOMEN,  AND  SONG  .     .    Odes,  I.  1 8  .    .     .    E.  F.    .     .    .  118 

AN  ODE  TO  FORTUNE       .     .    .     Odes,  I.  35  .     .     .    E.  F.    .    .     .  121 

To  A  JAR  OF  WINE      ....    Odes,  III.  21     .    .    E.  F.    .     .     .  123 

To  POMPEIUS  VARUS    ....     Odes,  II.  7       .     .    E.  F.    .     .     .  125 

THE  POET'S  METAMORPHOSIS   .    Odes,  II.  20      .    .     E.  F.    .    .     .  127 

To  VENUS Odes,  I.  30   ...     E.  F.     ...  129 

IN  THE  SPRINGTIME.    I.    ...    Odes,  1. 4     ...     E.  F.    ...  130 

IN  THE  SPRINGTIME.    II R.  M.F.   .     .  132 

To  A  BULLY Epode  VI.    ...     E.  F.    ...  134 

To  MOTHER  VENUS 136 

To  LYDIA Odes,  I.  8     ...     E.  F.     ...  139 

To  NEOBULE Odes,  III.  12     .     .     R.M.F.   .    .  141 

AT  THE  BALL  GAME    ....    Odes,  V.  17      .     .     R.M.F.   .    .  143 

EPILOGUE E.F.    .    .    .  147 


ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 


AN   INVITATION   TO   M/ECENAS. 


JEAR,  noble  friend  !    a  virgin  cask 

Of  wine  solicits  your  attention ; 
And  roses  fair,  to  deck  your  hair, 
And  things  too  numerous  to  mention. 
So  tear  yourself  awhile  away 

From  urban  turmoil,  pride,  and  splendor, 
And  deign  to  share  what  humble  fare 

And  sumptuous  fellowship  I  tender. 
The  sweet  content  retirement  brings 
Smoothes  out  the  ruffled  front  of  kings. 


14  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

The  evil  planets  have  combined 

To  make  the  weather  hot  and  hotter; 
By  parboiled  streams  the  shepherd  dreams 

Vainly  of  ice-cream  soda-water. 
And  meanwhile  you,  defying  heat, 

With  patriotic  ardor  ponder 
On  what  old  Rome  essays  at  home, 

And  what  her  heathen  do  out  yonder. 
Maecenas,  no  such  vain  alarm 
Disturbs  the  quiet  of  this  farm  ! 

God  in  His  providence  obscures 

The  goal  beyond  this  vale  of  sorrow, 
And  smiles  at  men  in  pity  when 

They  seek  to  penetrate  the  morrow. 
With  faith  that  all  is  for  the  best, 

Let  's  bear  what  burdens  are  presented, 
That  we  shall  say,  let  come  what  may, 

"  We  die,  as  we  have  lived,  contented  ! 
Ours  is  to-day;    God's  is  the  rest, — 
He  doth  ordain  who  knoweth  best." 


AN  INVITATION   TO  MAECENAS. 

Dame  Fortune  plays  me  many  a  prank. 

When  she  is  kind,  oh,  how  I  go  it ! 
But  if  again  she  's  harsh,  —  why,  then 

I  am  a  very  proper  poet ! 
When  favoring  gales  bring  in  my  ships, 

I  hie  to  Rome  and  live  in  clover; 
Elsewise  I  steer  my  skiff  out  here, 

And  anchor  till  the  storm  blows  over. 
Compulsory  virtue  is  the  charm 
Of  life  upon  the  Sabine  farm  ! 


CHLORIS  PROPERLY   REBUKED. 

JHLORIS,  my  friend,  I    pray  you   your  miscon 
duct  to  forswear; 
The    wife    of    poor   old    Ibycus    should    have 

more   savoir  faire. 
A  woman  at  your  time  of  life,  and  drawing  near  death's 

door, 

Should    not    play   with   the    girly   girls,  and    think    she  's 
en  rapport. 

What  's  good  enough  for  Pholoe  you  cannot  well  essay ; 
Your     daughter     very     properly     courts      the     jeunesse 

doree,  — 
A    Thyiad,   who,   when    timbrel    beats,    cannot    her    joy 

restrain, 
But  plays  the  kid,  and  laughs  and  giggles  a  fAmericaine. 


CHLORIS  PROPERLY  REBUKED.  I? 

'T  is   more    becoming,  Madame,   in    a   creature   old   and 

poor, 

To  sit  and  spin  than  to  engage  in  an  affaire  <T amour. 
The  lutes,  the  roses,  and  the  wine  drained  deep  are  not 

for  you; 

Remember  what  the  poet  says :     Ce  monde  est  plein  de 
fous  ! 


'c% 

»  — .     jW'v       '' 
_^^*-  |S*^ilrt*kJ 


TO  THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   BANDUSIA. 


FOUNTAIN    of    Bandusia  ! 

Whence  crystal  waters  flow, 
With  garlands  gay  and  wine  I  '11  pay 

The  sacrifice  I  owe ; 
A  sportive   kid  with  budding  honis 

I  have,  whose  crimson  blood 
Anon  shall  dye  and  sanctify 
Thy  cool  and  babbling  flood. 


O  fountain  of  Bandusia  ! 

The  Dog-star's  hateful  spell 
No   evil   brings   into    the   springs 

That  from  thy  bosom  well ; 


TO   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BANDUSIA. 

Here  oxen,  wearied  by  the  plow, 

The  roving  cattle   here 
Hasten  in  quest  of  certain  rest, 

And  quaff  thy  gracious  cheer. 

O  fountain  of  Bandusia  ! 

Ennobled  shalt  thou  be, 
For  I  shall  sing  the  joys  that  spring 

Beneath  yon  ilex-tree. 
Yes,  fountain  of  Bandusia, 

Posterity  shall  know 
The  cooling  brooks  that  from  thy  nooks 

Singing  and  dancing  go. 


TO    THE    FOUNTAIN    OF    BANDUSIA. 

FOUNTAIN  of  Bandusia !  more  glittering  than 

glass, 
And  worthy   of  the   pleasant  wine   and  toasts 

that  freely  pass; 
More   worthy  of  the  flowers   with   which    thou   modestly 

art  hid, 
To-morrow  willing  hands  shall  sacrifice  to  thee  a  kid. 

In  vain    the    glory    of   the    brow   where    proudly   swell 

above 

The  growing  horns,  significant  of  battle  and  of  love ; 
For    in    thy    honor   he    shall  die,  —  the  offspring  of    the 

herd, — 
And  with  his  crimson  life-blood  thy  cold  waters  shall  be 

stirred. 


TO   THE  FOUNTAIN  OP  BANDUSIA.  21 

The  Dog-star's  cruel  season,  with  its  fierce  and  blazing 
heat, 

Has  never  sent  its  scorching  rays  into  thy  glad   retreat; 

The  oxen,  wearied  with  the  plow,  the  herd  which  wan 
ders  near, 

Have  found  a  grateful  respite  and  delicious  coolness  here. 

When  of  the  graceful  ilex  on  the  hollow  rocks  I  sing, 
Thou  shall  become  illustrious,  O  sweet  Bandusian  spring  ! 
Among   the    noble  fountains  which  have    been    enshrined 

in  fame, 
Thy  dancing,  babbling  waters  shall   in   song   our  homage 

claim. 


THE   PREFERENCE   DECLARED. 


OY,  I  detest  the  Persian  pomp; 

I  hate  those  linden-bark  devices; 
And  as  for  roses,  holy  Moses  ! 

They  can't  be  got  at  living  prices  ! 
Myrtle  is  good  enough  for  us,  — 

For  you,  as  bearer  of  my  flagon ; 
For  me,  supine  beneath  this  vine, 
Doing  my  best  to  get  a  jag  on  ! 


A   TARDY   APOLOGY. 

I. 

I/ECENAS,    you    will    be    my    death,  —  though 

friendly  you  profess  yourself, — 
If  to  me  in  a  strain  like  this   so    often   you 

address  yourself: 
"Come,  Holly,  why  this  laziness?     Why  indolently  shock 

you  us? 
Why  with  Lethean  cups  fall  into  desuetude  innocuous?" 

A    god,    Maecenas !    yea,    a    god    hath    proved    the    very 

curse  of  me  ! 
If  my   iambics    are    not    done,    pray,    do    not    think    the 

worse  of  me ; 

Anacreon  for  young  Bathyllus  burned  without  apology, 
And  wept  his  simple  measures  on  a  sample  of  conchology. 


24        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

j 

Now,  you  yourself,  Maecenas,  are  enjoying  this  beatitude ; 

If  by   no   brighter  beauty   Ilium   fell,   you  've   cause   for 

gratitude. 
A  certain    Phryne    keeps    me    on    the    rack  with   lovers 

numerous ; 
This  is  the  artful  hussy's  neat  conception  of  the  humorous  ! 


A   TARDY    APOLOGY. 

II. 
|OU  ask  me,  friend, 


Why  I  don't  send 

The  long  since  due-and-paid-for  numbers  ; 
Why,  songless,  I 
As  drunken  lie 
Abandoned  to  Lethean  slumbers. 

Long  time  ago 

(As  well  you  know) 
I  started  in  upon  that  carmen; 

My  work  was  vain,  — 

But  why  complain? 
When  gods  forbid,  how  helpless  are  men  ! 


26  ECHOES  PROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Some  ages  back, 
1 

The  sage  Anack 

Courted  a  frisky  Samian  body, 

Singing  her  praise 

In  metered  phrase 
As  flowing  as  his  bowls  of  toddy. 

'Til  I  was  hoarse 

Might  I  discourse 
Upon  the  cruelties  of  Venus ; 

'Twere  waste  of  time 

As  well  of  rhyme, 
For  you  've  been  there  yourself,  Maecenas  ! 

Perfect  your  bliss 

If  some  fair  miss 
Love  you  yourself  and  not  your  minae  ; 

I,  fortune's  sport, 

All  vainly  court 
The  beauteous,  polyandrous  Phryne  ! 


TO   THE  SHIP   OF   STATE. 


SHIP  of  state, 

Shall  new  winds  bear  you  back  upon  the  sea? 
What  are  you  doing?     Seek  the  harbor's  lee 
Ere  't  is  too  late  ! 


Do  you  bemoan 

Your  side  was  stripped  of  oarage  in  the  blast? 
Swift  Africus  has  weakened,  too,  your  mast; 

The  sailyards  groan. 


Of  cables  bare, 

Your  keel  can  scarce  endure  the  lordly  wave. 
Your  sails  are  rent ;    you  have  no  gods  to  save, 

Or  answer  pray'r. 


28  ECHOES  FROM   THE  S A  BINE  FARM. 

Though  Pontic  pine, 

The  noble  daughter  of  a  far- famed  wood, 
You  boast  your  lineage  and  title  good, — 

A  useless  line  ! 

The  sailor  there 

In  painted  sterns  no  reassurance  finds; 
Unless  you  owe  derision  to  the  winds, 

Beware  —  beware  ! 

My  grief  erewhile, 

But  now  my  care  —  my  longing  !   shun  the  seas 
That  flow  between  the  gleaming  Cyclades, 

Each  shining  isle. 


QUITTING  AGAIN. 


HE  hero  of 

Affairs  of  love 

By  far  too  numerous  to  be  mentioned, 
And  scarred  as  I  'm, 
It  seemeth  time 
That  I  were  mustered  out  and  pensioned. 


So  on  this  wall 

My  lute  and  all 
I  hang,  and  dedicate  to  Venus; 

And  I  implore 

But  one  thing  more 
Ere  all  is  at  an  end  between  us. 


3O        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

O  goddess  fair 

Who  reignest  where 
The  weather's  seldom  bleak  and  snowy, 

This  boon  I  urge  : 

In  anger  scourge 
My  old  cantankerous  sweetheart,  Chloe  ! 


SAILOR    AND    SHADE. 

SAILOR. 

OU,  who  have  compassed  land  and  sea, 
Now  all  unburied  lie ; 

All  vain  your  store  of  human  lore, 

For  you  were  doomed  to  die. 
The  sire  of  Pelops  likewise  fell, — 

Jove's  honored  mortal  guest ; 
So  king  and  sage  of  every  age 

At  last  lie  down  to  rest. 
Plutonian  shades  enfold  the  ghost 

Of  that  majestic  one 
Who  taught  as  truth  that  he,  forsooth, 

Had  once  been  Pentheus'  son ; 
Believe  who  may,  he 's  passed  away, 

And  what  he  did  is  done. 


32  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

A  last  night  comes  alike  to  all ; 
\ 

One  path  we  all  must  tread, 

Through  sore  disease  or  stormy  seas 
Or  fields  with  corpses  red. 

Whate'er  our  deeds,  that  pathway  leads 
To  regions  of  the  dead. 


SHADE. 

The  fickle  twin  Illyrian  gales 

O'erwhelmed  me  on  the  wave; 
But  you  that  live,  I  pray  you  give 

My  bleaching  bones  a  grave  ! 
Oh,  then  when  cruel  tempests  rage 

You  all  unharmed  shall  be ; 
Jove's  mighty  hand  shall  guard  by  land 

And  Neptune's  on  the  sea. 
Perchance  you  fear  to  do  what  may 

Bring  evil  to  your  race? 
Oh,  rather  fear  that  like  me  here 

You  '11  lack  a  burial  place. 


SAILOR  AND  SHADE.  33 

So,  though  you  be  in  proper  haste, 

Bide  long  enough,  I  pray, 
To  give  me,  friend,  what  boon  shall  send 

My  soul  upon  its  way ! 


LET   US   HAVE   PEACE. 

N  maudlin  spite  let  Thracians  fight 

Above  their  bowls  of  liquor; 
But  such  as  we,  when  on  a  spree, 
Should  never  brawl  and  bicker ! 

These  angry  words  and  clashing  swords 
Are  quite  de  trop,  I'm  thinking; 

Brace  up,  my  boys,  and  hush  your  noise, 
And  drown  your  wrath  in  drinking. 

Aha,  't  is  fine,  —  this  mellow  wine 
With  which  our  host  would  dope  us  ! 

Now  let  us  hear  what  pretty  dear 
Entangles  him  of  Opus. 


LET   US  HAVE  PEACE.  35 

I  see  you  blush,  —  nay,  comrades,  hush  ! 

Come,  friend,  though  they  despise  you, 
Tell  me  the  name  of  that  fair  dame,  — 

Perchance  I  may  advise  you. 

O  wretched  youth  !  and  is  it  truth 

You  love  that  fickle  lady? 
I,  doting  dunce,  courted  her  once; 

Since  when,  she  's  reckoned  shady  ! 


TO  QUINTUS   DELLIUS. 


E  tranquil,  Dellius,  I  pray; 
For  though  you  pine  your  life  away 

With  dull  complaining  breath, 
Or  speed  with  song  and  wine  each  day, 
Still,  still  your  doom  is  death. 


Where  the  white  poplar  and  the  pine 
In  glorious  arching  shade  combine, 

And  the  brook  singing  goes, 
Bid  them  bring  store  of  nard  and  wine 

And  garlands  of  the  rose. 


TO  QUINT  US  DELLIUS.  37 

Let 's  live  while  chance  and  youth  obtain ; 
Soon  shall  you  quit  this  fair  domain 

Kissed  by  the  Tiber's  gold, 
And  all  your  earthly  pride  and  gain 

Some  heedless  heir  shall  hold. 


One  ghostly  boat  shall  some  time  bear 
From  scenes  of  mirthfulness  or  care 

Each  fated  human  soul,  — 
Shall  waft  and  leave  its  burden  where 

The  waves  of  Lethe  roll. 


So  come,  I  prithee,  Dellius,  mine  ; 

Let's  sing  our  songs  and  drink  our  wine 

In  that  sequestered  nook 
Where  the  white  poplar  and  the.  pine 

Stand  listening  to  the  brook. 


POKING   FUN   AT  XANTHIAS. 

'   your  love  for   your  handmaid   you  need  feel 

no  shame. 

Don't  apologize,  Xanthias,  pray; 
Remember,  Achilles  the  proud  felt  a  flame 

For  Brissy,  his  slave,  as  they  say. 
Old  Telamon's  son,  fiery  Ajax,  was  moved 

By  the  captive  Tecmessa's  ripe  charms; 
And  Atrides,  suspending  the  feast,  it  behooved 
To  gather  a  girl  to  his  arms. 

Now,  how  do  you  know  that  this  yellow-haired  maid 
(This  Phyllis  you  fain  would  enjoy) 

Has  n't  parents  whose  wealth  would  cast  you  in  the 

shade, — 
Who  would  ornament  you  Xan,  my  boy? 


POKING  FUN  AT  XANTHIAS.  39 

Very  likely  the  poor  chick  sheds  copious  tears, 
And  is  bitterly  thinking  the  while 

Of  the  royal  good  times  of  her  earlier  years, 
When  her  folks  regulated  the  style  ! 


It  won't  do  at  all,  my  dear  boy,  to  believe 

That  she  of  whose  charms  you  are  proud 
Is  beautiful  only  as  means  to  deceive,  — 

Merely  one  of  the  horrible  crowd. 
So  constant  a  sweetheart,  so  loving  a  wife, 

So  averse  to  all  notions  of  greed 
Was  surely  not  born  of  a  mother  whose  life 

Is  a  chapter  you  'd  better  not  read. 


As  an  unbiased  party  I  feel  it  my  place 

(For  I  don't  like  to  do  things  by  halves) 

To  compliment  Phyllis,  —  her  arms  and  her  face 
And  (excuse  me  !)   her  delicate  calves. 


4O  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Tut,  tut !  don't  get  angry,  my  boy,  or  suspect 
You  have  any  occasion  to  fear 

A  man  whose  deportment  is  always  correct, 
And  is  now  in  his  forty-first  year ! 


TO   ARISTIUS   FUSCUS. 

SCUS,  whoso  to  good  inclines, 

And  is  a  faultless  liver, 
Nor  Moorish  spear  nor  bow  need  fear, 
Nor  poison-arrowed  quiver. 

Ay,  though  through  desert  wastes  he  roam, 

Or  scale  the  rugged  mountains, 
Or  rest  beside  the  murmuring  tide 

Of  weird  Hydaspan  fountains  ! 

Lo,  on  a  time,  I  gayly  paced 

The  Sabine  confines  shady, 
And  sung  in  glee  of  Lalage, 

My  own  and  dearest  lady; 


42        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

And  as  I  sung,  a  monster  wolf 

Slunk  through  the  thicket  from  me; 

But  for  that  song,  as  I  strolled  along, 
He  would  have  overcome  me  ! 

Set  me  amid  those  poison  mists 
Which  no  fair  gale  dispelleth, 

Or  in  the  plains  where  silence  reigns, 
And  no  thing  human  dwelleth, — 

Still  shall  I  love  my  Lalage, 
Still  sing  her  tender  graces; 

And  while  I  sing,  my  theme  shall  bring 
Heaven  to  those  desert  places ! 


TO   ALBIUS   T1BULLUS. 

I. 

OT  to  lament  that  rival  flame 

Wherewith  the  heartless  Glycera  scorns  you, 
Nor  waste  your  time  in  maudlin  rhyme, 
How  many  a  modern  instance  warns  you  ! 


Fair-browed  Lycoris  pines  away 
Because  her  Cyrus  loves  another; 

The  ruthless  churl  informs  the  girl 
He  loves  her  only  as  a  brother ! 


For  he,  in  turn,  courts  Pholoe,  — 

A  maid  unscotched  of  love's  fierce  virus; 

Why,  goats  will  mate  with  wolves  they  hate 
Ere  Pholoe  will  mate  with  Cyrus  ! 


44  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Ah,  weak  and  hapless  human  hearts, 
By  cruel  Mother  Venus  fated 

To  spend  this  life  in  hopeless  strife, 
Because  incongruously  mated  ! 

Such  torture,  Albius,  is  my  lot ; 

For,  though  a  better  mistress  wooed  mer 
My  Myrtale  has  captured  me, 

And  with  her  cruelties  subdued  me  ! 


TO   ALB1US   TIBULLUS. 


II. 


RIEVE   not,  my  Albius,  if  thoughts  of  Glycera 

may  haunt  you, 
Nor  chant  your  mournful  elegies  because  she 

faithless  proves ; 
If   now   a    younger    man    than  you  this  cruel  charmer 

loves, 

Let  not    the    kindly  favors  of   the   past    rise  up  to  taunt 
you. 


Lycoris  of   the  little  brow  for  Cyrus  feels  a  passion, 
And  Cyrus,  on  the  other  hand,  toward  Pholoe  inclines; 
But  ere  this  crafty  Cyrus  can  accomplish  his  designs 

She-goats    will    wed     Apulian    wolves    in     deference    to 
fashion. 


46       ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Such  te  the  will,  the  cruel  will,  of  love- inciting  Venus, 
Who  takes  delight  in  wanton  sport  and  ill-considered 

jokes, 
And    brings    ridiculous    misfits     beneath     her     brazen 

yokes,  — 
A  very  infelicitous  proceeding,  just  between  us. 

As    for   myself,    young    Myrtale,    slave-born    and    lacking 

graces, 
And  wilder  than  the  Adrian  tides  which  form  Calabrian 

bays, 
Entangled    me    in    pleasing  chains   and    compromising 

ways, 

When — just    my   luck  —  a    better  girl  was    courting   my 
embraces. 


TO   MAECENAS. 


jj^ECENAS,  thou  of  royalty's  descent, 
Both  my  protector  and  dear  ornament, 
Among  humanity's  conditions  are 
Those  who  take  pleasure  in  the  flying  car, 
Whirling  Olympian  dust,  as  on  they  roll, 
And  shunning  with  the  glowing  wheel  the  goal ; 
While  the  ennobling  palm,  the  prize  of  worth, 
Exalts  them  to  the  gods,  the  lords  of  earth. 


Here  one  is  happy  if  the  fickle  crowd 

His  name  the  threefold  honor  has  allowed; 

And  there  another,  if  into  his  stores 

Comes  what  is  swept  from  Libyan  threshing-floors. 

He  who  delights  to  till  his  father's  lands, 

And  grasps  the  delving- hoe  with  willing  hands, 


48        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SAB1NE  FARM. 

Can  never  to  Attalic  offers  hark, 

Or  cut  the  Myrtoan  Sea  with  Cyprian  bark. 

The  merchant,  timorous  of  Afric's  breeze, 

When  fiercely  struggling  with  Icarian  seas 

Praises  the  restful  quiet  of  his  home, 

Nor  wishes  from  the  peaceful  fields  to  roam; 

Ah,  speedily  his  shattered  ships  he  mends, — 

To  poverty  his  lesson  ne'er  extends. 

One  there  may  be  who  never  scorns  to  fill 

His  cups  with  mellow  draughts  from  Massic's  hillT 

Nor  from  the  busy  day  an  hour  to  wean, 

Now  stretched  at  length  beneath  the  arbute  green, 

Now  at  the  softly  whispering  spring,  to  dream 

Of  the  fair  nymphs  who  haunt  the  sacred  stream. 

For  camp  and  trump  and  clarion  some  have  zest,  - 

The  cruel  wars  the  mothers  so  detest. 

'Neath  the  cold  sky  the  hunter  spends  his  life, 

Unmindful  of  his  home  and  tender  wife, 

Whether  the  doe  is  seen  by  faithful  hounds 

Or  Marsian  boar  through  the  fine  meshes  bounds. 


TO  M&CENAS.  49 

But  as  for  me,  the  ivy-wreaths,  the  prize 
Of  learned  brows,  exalt  me  to  the  skies ; 
The  shady  grove,  the  nymphs  and  satyrs  there, 
Draw  me  away  from  people  everywhere ; 
If  it  may  be,  Euterpe's  flute  inspires, 
Or  Polyhymnia  strikes  the  Lesbian  lyres; 
And  if  you  place  me  where  no  bard  debars, 
With  head  exalted  I  shall  strike  the  stars  ! 


TO   HIS  BOOK. 

IOU  vain,  self-conscious  little  book, 
Companion  of  my  happy  days, 

How  eagerly  you  seem  to  look 
For  wider  fields  to  spread  your  lays ; 
My  desk  and  locks  cannot  contain  you, 
Nor  blush  of  modesty  restrain  you. 

Well,  then,  begone,  fool  that  thou  art ! 
But  do  not  come  to  me  and  cry, 

When  critics  strike  you  to  the  heart : 
"  Oh,  wretched  little  book  am  I  !  " 

You  know  I  tried  to  educate  you 

To  shun  the  fate  that  must  await  you. 


TO  HIS  BOOK. 

In  youth  you  may  encounter  friends 
(Pray  this  prediction  be  not  wrong), 

But  wait  until  old  age  descends 
And  thumbs  have  smeared  your  gentlest  song ; 

Then  will  the  moths  connive  to  eat  you 

And  rural  libraries  secrete  you. 

However,  should  a  friend  some  word 
Of  my  obscure  career  request, 

Tell  him  how  deeply  I  was  stirred 
To  spread  my  wings  beyond  the  nest; 

Take  from  my  years,  which  are  before  you, 

To  boom  my  merits,  I  implore  you. 

Tell  him  that  I  am  short  and  fat, 
Quick  in  my  temper,  soon  appeased, 

With  locks  of  gray,  —  but  what  of  that  ? 
Loving  the  sun,  with  nature  pleased. 

I  'm  more  than  four  and  forty,  hark  you,  — 

But  ready  for  a  night  off,  mark  you  ! 


FAME  vs.   RICHES. 

HE  Greeks  had  genius,  —  'twas  a  gift 

The  Muse  vouchsafed  in  glorious  measure ; 
The  boon  of  Fame  they  made  their  aim 
And  prized  above  all  worldly  treasure. 

But  we,  —  how  do  we  train  our  youth? 

Not  in  the  arts  that  are  immortal, 
But  in  the  greed  for  gains  that  speed 

From  him  who  stands  at  Death's  dark  portal. 

Ah,  when  this  slavish  love  of  gold 
Once  binds  the  soul  in  greasy  fetters. 

How  prostrate  lies,  —  how  droops  and  dies 
The  great,  the  noble  cause  of  letters  ! 


THE   LYRIC   MUSE. 

LOVE  the  lyric  muse  ! 
For  when  mankind  ran  wild  in  groves 
Came  holy  Orpheus  with  his  song? 
And  turned  men's  hearts  from  bestial  loves, 

From  brutal  force  and  savage  wrongs; 
Amphion,  too,  and  on  his  lyre 

Made  such  sweet  music  all  the  day 
That  rocks,  instinct  with  warm  desire, 
Pursued  him  in  his  glorious  way. 


I  love  the  lyric  muse  ! 
Hers  was  the  wisdom  that  of  yore 

Taught  man  the  rights  of  fellow  man, 
Taught  him  to  worship  God  the  more, 

And  to  revere  love's  holy  ban. 


54        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SAB1NE  FARM. 

Hers  was  the  hand  that  jotted  down 
The  laws  correcting  divers  wrongs; 

And  so  came  honor  and  renown 
To  bards  and  to  their  noble  songs. 


I  love  the  lyric  muse  ! 
Old  Homer  sung  unto  the  lyre; 

Tyrtseus,  too,  in  ancient  days; 
Still  warmed  by  th'eir  immortal  fire, 

How  doth  our  patriot  spirit  blaze  ! 
The  oracle,  when  questioned,  sings; 

So  our  first  steps  in  life  are  taught. 
In  verse  we  soothe  the  pride  of  kings, 

In  verse  the  drama  has  been  wrought. 

I  love  the  lyric  muse  ! 
Be  not  ashamed,  O  noble  friend, 

In  honest  gratitude  to  pay 
Thy  homage  to  the  gods  that  send 

This  boon  to  charm  all  ill  away. 


THE  LYRIC  MUSE.  55 

With  solemn  tenderness  revere 

This  voiceful  glory  as  a  shrine 
Wherein  the  quickened  heart  may  hear 

The  counsels  of  a  voice  divine  ! 


A   COUNTERBLAST   AGAINST   GARLIC 

|AY    the    man   who    has    cruelly   murdered    his 

sire  — 

A  crime  to  be  punished  with  death  — 
Be  condemned  to  eat  garlic  till  he  shall  expire 

Of  his  own  foul  and  venomous  breath  ! 
What  stomachs  these  rustics  must  have  who  can  eat 

This  dish  that  Canidia  made, 
Which  imparts  to  my  colon  a  torturous  heat, 
And  a  poisonous  look,  I  'm  afraid  ! 

They  say  that  ere  Jason  attempted  to  yoke 

The  fire-breathing  bulls  to  the  plow 
He  smeared  his  whole  body  with  garlic,  —  a  joke 

Which  I  fully  appreciate  now. 


A  COUNTERBLAST  AGAINST  GARLIC.  57 

When  Medea  gave  Glauce  her  beautiful  dress, 
In  which  garlic  was  scattered  about, 

It  was  cruel  and  rather  low-down,  I  confess, 
But  it  settled  the  point  beyond  doubt. 

On  thirsty  Apulia  ne'er  has  the  sun 

Inflicted  such  terrible  heat; 
As  for  Hercules'  robe,  although  poisoned,  't  was  fun 

When  compared  with  this  garlic  we  eat ! 
Maecenas,  if  ever  on  garbage  like  this 

You  express  a  desire  to  be  fed, 
May  Mrs.  Maecenas  object  to  your  kiss, 

And  lie  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  ! 


AN   EXCUSE   FOR   LALAGE. 

O  bear  the  yoke  not  yet  your  love's  submissive 

neck  is  bent, 
To     share    a    husband's    toil,    or    grasp     his 

amorous  intent; 

Over  the  fields,  in  cooling  streams,  the  heifer  longs  to  go, 
Now  with  the    calves  disporting  where    the    pussy-willows 
grow. 

Give   up   your   thirst    for   unripe    grapes,    and,   trust   me, 

you  shall  learn 

How  quickly  in  the  autumn  time  to  purple  they  will  turn. 
Soon   she  will  follow   you,  for   age   steals   swiftly   on   the 

maid; 
And  all  the  precious   years  that   you   have    lost    she  will 

have  paid. 


AN  EXCUSE  FOR  LALAGE.  59 

Soon  she  will  seek  a  lord,  beloved  as  Pholoe,  the  coy, 
Or  Chloris,  or  young  Gyges,  that  deceitful,  girlish  boy, 
Whom,  if  you  placed  among  the  girls,  and  loosed  his 

flowing  locks, 
The    wondering    guests    could     not    decide    which    one 

decorum  shocks. 


AN   APPEAL   TO  LYCE. 


in 


^•'•^y^  V('K,   the  gods  have  heard  my  prayers,  as  gods 

will  hear  the  dutiful, 
And    brought   old  age  upon   you,  though  you 

still  affect  the  beautiful. 
You    sport    among   the    boys,  and  drink   and    chatter   on 

quite  aimlessly; 

And    in    your    cups   with    quavering    voice    you    torment 
Cupid  shamelessly. 

For    blooming    Chia,    Cupid    has    a    feeling    more    than 

brotherly ; 
He   knows    a  handsaw  from  a  hawk  whenever  winds   are 

southerly. 


AN  APPEAL    TO  LYCE. 


61 


He    pats    her    pretty    cheeks,  but    looks    on    you    as    a 

monstrosity ; 
Your  wrinkles  and  your  yellow  teeth  excite  his  animosity. 

For  jewels    bright    and    purple    Coan  robes   you  are   not 

dressable ; 

Unhappily  for  you  the  public  records  are  accessible. 
Where    is    your   charm,  and   where    your  bloom  and  gait 

so  firm  and  sensible, 
That     drew     my    love     from     Cinara,  —  a    lapse     most 

indefensible  ? 

To   my   poor   Cinara    in    youth    Death    came   with   great 

celerity ; 

Egad,  that  never  can  be  said  of  you  with  any  verity ! 
The  old  crow  that    you    are,  the   teasing   boys   will  jeer, 

compelling  you 
To   roost    at    home.      Reflect,  all   this   is   straight  that  I 

am  telling  you. 


A   ROMAN   WINTER-PIECE. 

I. 

EE,  Thaliarch  mine,  how,  white  with  snow, 

Soracte  mocks  the  sullen  sky; 
How,  groaning  loud,  the  woods  are  bowed, 
And  chained  with  frost  the  rivers  lie. 


Pile,  pile  the  logs  upon  the  hearth; 

We  '11  melt  away  the  envious  cold : 
And,  better  yet,  sweet  friend,  we  '11  wet 

Our  whistles  with  some  four-year-old. 


Commit  all  else  unto  the  gods, 

Who,  when  it  pleaseth  them,  shall  bring 
To  fretful  deeps  and  wooded  steeps 

The  mild,  persuasive  grace  of  Spring. 


A  ROMAN  WINTER-PIECE.  63 

Let  not  To-morrow,  but  To-day, 

Your  ever  active  thoughts  engage; 
Frisk,  dance,  and  sing,  and  have  your  fling, 

Unharmed,  unawed  of  crabbed  Age. 

Let  's  steal  content  from  Winter's  wrath, 

And  glory  in  the  artful  theft, 
That  years  from  now  folks  shall  allow 

'T  was  cold  indeed  when  we  got  left. 

So  where  the  whisperings  and  the   mirth 

Of  girls  invite  a  sportive  chap, 
Let  's  fare  awhile,  —  aha,  you  smile  ; 

You  guess  my  meaning,  —  verbum  sap. 


A   ROMAN   WINTER-PIECE. 

II. 

OW  stands   Soracte  white  with  snow,  now  bend 

the  laboring  trees, 
And    with    the    sharpness    of    the    frost    the 

stagnant  rivers  freeze. 
Pile    up    the    billets    on    the    hearth,   to    warmer   cheer 

incline, 
And  draw,  my  Thaliarchus,  from  the  Sabine  jar  the  wine. 


The  rest  leave  to  the  gods,  who  still  the  fiercely  warring 

wind, 
And    to    the    morrow's    store    of    good   or   evil    give    no 

mind. 


A  ROMAN  WINTER-PIECE.  65 

Whatever  day  your  fortune  grants,  that  day  mark  up  for 

gain; 
And  in   your  youthful    bloom  do   not   the    sweet   amours 

disdain. 

Now    on    the  Campus    and    the    squares,   when   evening 

shades  descend, 
Soft    whisperings    again    are    heard,    and     loving   voices 

blend ; 
And   now   the   low   delightful   laugh    betrays   the   lurking 

maid, 
While  from  her  slowly  yielding  arms  the  forfeiture  is  paid. 


TO   DIANA. 


VIRGIN,  tri-formed  goddess  fair, 

The  guardian  of  the  groves  and  hills, 
Who  hears  the  girls  in  their  despair 

Cry  out  in  childbirth's  cruel  ills, 

And  saves  them  from  the  Stygian  flow ! 
Let  the  pine-tree  my  cottage  near 

Be  sacred  to  thee   evermore, 
That  I  may  give  to  it  each  year 

With  joy  the  life-blood  of  the  boar, 
Now  thinking  of  the  sidelong  blow. 


TO  HIS  LUTE. 


F  ever  in  the  sylvan  shade 

A  song  immortal  we  have  made, 
Come  now,  O  lute,  I  prithee  come, 
Inspire  a  song  of  Latium  ! 


A  Lesbian  first  thy  glories  proved ; 

In  arms  and  in  repose  he  loved 

To  sweep  thy  dulcet  strings,  and  raise 

His  voice  in  Love's  and  Liber's  praise. 

The  Muses,  too,  and  him  who  clings 

To  Mother  Venus'  apron-strings, 

And  Lycus  beautiful,  he  sung 

In  those  old  days  when  you  were  young. 


68        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

O  shell,  that  art  the  ornament 
Of  Phoebus,  bringing  sweet  content 
To  Jove,  and  soothing  troubles  all,  — 
Come  and  requite  me,  when  I  call ! 


TO    LEUCONOE. 

I. 

JHAT  end  the  gods  may  have  ordained  for  me, 
And  what  for  thee, 

Seek  not  to  learn,  Leuconoe ;   we  may  not 
know. 

Chaldean  tables  cannot  bring  us  rest. 
Tis  for  the  best 

To  bear  in  patience  what  may  come,  or  weal  or  woe. 


If  for  more  winters  our  poor  lot  is  cast, 
Or  this  the  last, 

Which  on  the  crumbling  rocks  has  dashed  Etruscan  seas, 
Strain  clear  the  wine ;  this  life  is  short,  at  best. 
Take  hope  with  zest, 

And,  trusting  not  To-morrow,  snatch  To-day  for  ease  ! 


TO    LEUCONOE. 

II. 
jjEEK  not,  Leuconoe,  to  know  how  long  you  're 

going  to  live  yet, 
What    boons   the    gods   will   yet   withhold,  or 

what  they  're  going  to  give  yet ; 
For   Jupiter    will   have   his   way,  despite   how   much   we 

worry,  — 
Some  will  hang  on  for  many  a  day,  and  some  die   in  a 

hurry. 

The  wisest  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  embark  this  diem 
Upon  a  merry  escapade  with  some  such  bard  as  I  am. 
And  while  we  sport  I  '11  reel  you  off  such  odes  as  shall 

surprise  ye ; 

To-morrow,  when  the  headache  comes,  —  well,  then  I  '11 
satirize  ye  ! 


TO  LIGURINUS. 

I. 

HOUGH  mighty  in  Love's  favor  still, 

Though  cruel  yet,  my  boy, 
When  the  unwelcome  dawn  shall  chill 
Your  pride  and  youthful  joy, 
The  hair  which  round  your  shoulder  grows 

Is  rudely  cut  away, 
Your  color,  redder  than  the  rose, 

Is  changed  by  youth's  decay,  — 

Then,  Ligurinus,  in  the  glass 

Another  you  will  spy. 
And  as  the  shaggy  face,  alas  ! 

You  see,  your  grief  will  cry : 


72        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

"Why  in  my  youth  could  I  not  learn 
The  wisdom  men  enjoy? 

Or  why  to  men  cannot  return 
The  smooth  cheeks  of  the  boy?" 


TO   LIGURINUS. 

II. 

CRUEL  fair, 

Whose  flowing  hair 
The  envy  and  the  pride  of  all  is, 
As  onward  roll 
The  years,  that  poll 
Will  get  as  bald  as  a  billiard  ball  is; 
Then  shall  your  skin,  now  pink  and  dimply, 
Be  tanned  to  parchment,  sear  and  pimply  ! 


When  you  behold 
Yourself  grown  old, 
These  words  shall  speak  your  spirits  moody 


74        ECHOES  PROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 
f 

"  Unhappy  one ! 

What  heaps  of  fun 
I  Ve  missed  by  being  goody-goody ! 
Oh,  that  I  might  have  felt  the  hunger 
Of  loveless  age  when  I  was  younger !  " 


THE  HAPPY   ISLES. 


H,  come  with  me  to  the  Happy  Isles 

In  the  golden  haze  off  yonder, 
Where  the  song  of  the  sun-kissed  breeze  beguiles 
And  the  ocean  loves  to  wander. 


Fragrant  the  vines  that  mantle  those  hills, 

Proudly  the  fig  rejoices, 
Merrily  dance  the  virgin  rills, 

Blending  their  myriad  voices. 


Our  herds  shall  surfer  no  evil  there, 
But  peacefully  feed  and  rest  them ; 

Never  thereto  shall  prowling  bear 
Or  serpent  come  to  molest  them. 


76        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Neither  shall  Eurus,  wanton  bold, 
Nor  feverish  drought  distress  us, 

But  he  that  compasseth  heat  and  cold 
Shall  temper  them  both  to  bless  us. 

There  no  vandal  foot  has  trod, 

And  the  pirate  hordes  that  wander 

Shall  never  profane  the  sacred  sod 
Of  those  beautiful  isles  out  yonder. 

Never  a  spell  shall  blight  our  vines 
Nor  Sirius  blaze  above  us, 

But  you  and  I  shall  drink  our  wines 
And  sing  to  the  loved  that  love  us. 

So  come  with  me  where  Fortune  smiles 
And  the  gods  invite  devotion,— 

Oh,  come  with  me  to  the  Happy  Isles 
In  the  haze  of  that  far-off  ocean  ! 


CONSISTENCY. 

HOULD  painter  attach  to  a  fair  human  head 

The  thick,  turgid  neck  of  a  stallion, 
Or  depict  a  spruce  lass  with  the  tail  of  a  bass, 
I  am  sure  you  would  guy  the  rapscallion. 

Believe  me,  dear  Pisos,  that  just  such  a  freak 

Is  the  crude  and  preposterous  poem 
Which  merely  abounds  in  a  torrent  of  sounds, 

With  no  depth  of  reason  below  'em. 

'T  is  all  very  well  to  give  license  to  art,  — 

The  wisdom  of  license  defend  I ; 
But  the  line  should  be  drawn  at  the  fripperish  spawn 

Of  a  mere  cacoethes  scribendi. 


ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

It  is  too  much  the  fashion  to  strain  at  effects,  — 
Yes,  that 's  what 's  the  matter  with  Hannah  ! 

Our  popular  taste  by  the  tyros  debased 
Paints  each  barnyard  a  grove  of  Diana ! 

Should  a  patron  require  you  to  paint  a  marine, 

Would  you  work  in  some  trees  with  their  barks  on? 

When  his  strict  orders  are  for  a  Japanese  jar, 
Would  you  give  him  a  pitcher  like  Clarkson? 

Now,  this  is  my  moral :     Compose  what  you  may, 

And  Fame  will  be  ever  far  distant 
Unless  you  combine  with  a  simple  design 

A  treatment  in  toto  consistent. 


TO    POSTUMUS. 

POSTUMUS,    my    Postumus,    the    years    are 

gliding  past, 

And     piety    will     never    check    the    wrinkles 
coming  fast, 

The  ravages  of  time  old  age's  swift  advance  has  made, 
And  death,  which  unimpeded  comes   to   bear  us   to   the 
shade. 


Old  friend,  although  the  tearless  Pluto  you  may  strive  to 

please, 
And  seek  each  year  with  thrice  one  hundred  bullocks  to 

appease, 

Who  keeps  the  thrice-huge  Geryon  and  Tityus  his  slaves, 
Imprisoned  fast  forevermore  with  cold  and  sombre  waves, 


8O        ECHOES  PROM  THE  SAB1NE  FARM. 

Yet  must  that  flood  so  terrible  be  sailed   by  mortals  all, 
Whether   perchance  we    may  be   kings    and  live  in  royal 

hall, 
Or    lowly     peasants     struggling    long   with     poverty    and 

dearth, 
Still    must   we    cross   who   live    upon    the   favors    of    the 

earth. 

And    all    in   vain   from    bloody  war   and  contest   we    are 

free, 
And  from  the  waves  that  hoarsely  break  upon  the  Adrian 

Sea; 
For    our   frail     bodies    all    in    vain     our    helpless    terror 

grows 
In  gloomy  autumn  seasons,  when  the  baneful  south  wind 

blows. 

Alas  !    the  black  Cocytus,  wandering  to  the  world  below, 
That  languid  river  to  behold  we  of  this  earth  must  go; 
To  see  the  grim  Danaides,  that  miserable  race, 
And  Sisyphus  of  Aeolus,  condemned  to  endless  chase. 


TO  POSTUMUS.  8  I 

Behind    you  must    you  leave    your   home    and    land    and 

wife  so  dear, 

And  of  the  trees,  except  the  hated  cypresses,  you  rear, 
And  which  around  the  funeral  piles  as  signs  of  mourning 

grow, 
Not  one  will  follow   you,   their   short-lived  master,   there 

below 

Your    worthier   heir,  the    precious    Csecuban    shall    drink 

galore, 
Now    with    a   hundred    keys    preserved    and   guarded   in 

your   store, 
And    stain    the    pavements,    pouring  out    in    waste     the 

nectar   proud, 
Better  than  that  with  which  the  pontiffs'   feasts  have  been 

endowed. 


TO   MISTRESS  PYRRHA. 

I. 

HAT  perfumed,  posie-dizened  sirrah, 

With  smiles  for  diet, 
Clasps  you,  O  fair  but  faithless  Pyrrha, 

On  the  quiet? 
For  whom  do  you  bind  up  your  tresses, 

As  spun-gold  yellow,— 
Meshes  that  go  with  your  caresses, 
To  snare  a  fellow? 

How  will  he  rail  at  fate  capricious, 

And  curse  you  duly, 
Yet  now  he  deems  your  wiles  delicious,  — 

You  perfect,  truly  ! 


TO  MISTRESS  PYRRHA.  83 

Pyrrha,  your  love  's  a  treacherous  ocean ; 

He  '11  soon  fall  in  there  ! 
Then  shall  I  gloat  on  his  commotion, 

For  /  have  been  there  ! 


TO   MISTRESS   PYRRHA. 

II. 

JHAT  dainty  boy  with  sweet  perfumes  bedewed 
Has  lavished  kisses,  Pyrrha,  in  the  cave? 
For  whom  amid  the  roses,  many-hued, 
Do  you  bind  back  your  tresses'  yellow  wave? 

How  oft  will  he  deplore  your  fickle  whim, 

And  wonder  at  the  storm  and  roughening  deeps, 

Who  now  enjoys  you,  all  in  all  to  him, 

And  dreams  of  you,  whose  only  thoughts  he  keeps. 

Wretched  are  they  to  whom  you  seem  so  fair ;  — 
That  I  escaped  the  storms,  the  gods  be  praised! 
My  dripping  garments,  offered  with  a  prayer, 
Stand  as  a  tablet  to  the  sea-god  raised. 


TO  MELPOMENE. 

fOFTY    and    enduring    is    the    monument    I  Ve 

reared : 

Come,  tempests,  with  your  bitterness  assailing ; 
And  thou,  corrosive  blasts  of  time,  by  all  things  mortal 

feared, 
Thy  buffets  and  thy  rage  are  unavailing ! 


I  shall  not  altogether  die :  by  far  my  greater  part 

Shall  mock  man's  common  fate  in  realms  infernal ; 
My  works    shall  live  as    tributes    to    my   genius   and    my 
art, — 

My  works  shall  be  my  monument  eternal ! 


86        ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

While  this  great  Roman  empire  stands  and  gods   protect 
our  fanes, 

Mankind  with  grateful  hearts  shall  tell  the  story 
How  one  most  lowly  born  upon  the  parched  Apulian  plains 

First  raised  the  native  lyric  muse  to  glory. 

Assume,  revered  Melpomene,  the  proud  estate  I  Ve  won, 
And,  with  thine  own  dear  hand  the  meed  supplying, 

Bind  thou  about  the  forehead  of  thy  celebrated  son 
The  Delphic  laurel-wreath  of  fame  undying ! 


TO   PHYLLIS. 

I. 
OME,  Phyllis,  I  Ve  a  cask  of  wine 

That  fairly  reeks  with  precious  juices, 
And  in  your  tresses  you  shall  twine 
The  loveliest  flowers  this  vale  produces. 


My  cottage  wears  a  gracious  smile ; 

The  altar,  decked  in  floral  glory, 
Yearns  for  the  lamb  which  bleats  the  while 

As   though  it  pined  for  honors  gory. 


Hither  our  neighbors  nimbly  fare, 

The  boys  agog,  the  maidens  snickering; 

And  savory  smells  possess  the  air, 

As  skyward  kitchen  flames  are  flickering. 


88      ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

You  ask  what  means  this  grand  display, 
This  festive  throng  and  goodly  diet? 

Well,  since  you  're  bound  to  have  your  way, 
I  don't  mind  telling,  on  the  quiet. 


T  is  April  13,  as  you  know, 

A  day  and  month  devote  to  Venus, 
Whereon  was  born,  some  years  ago, 

My  very  worthy  friend,  Maecenas. 


Nay,  pay  no  heed  to  Telephus; 

Your  friends  agree  he  does  n't  love  you. 
The  way  he  flirts  convinces  us 

He  really  is  not  worthy  of  you. 


Aurora's  son,  unhappy  lad  ! 

You  know  the  fate  that  overtook  him? 
And  Pegasus  a  rider  had, — 

I  say  he  had,  before  he  shook  him  ! 


TO  PHYLLIS.  89 

Hoec  docet  (as  you  must  agree) 

'T  is  meet  that  Phyllis  should  discover 

A  wisdom  in  preferring  me, 

And  mittening  every  other  lover. 


So  come,  O  Phyllis,  last  and  best 

Of  loves  with  which  this  heart  's  been  smitten, 
Come,  sing  my  jealous  fears  to  rest, 

And  let  your  songs  be  those  I've  written. 


\ 

TO   PHYLLIS. 

II. 

|WEET    Phyllis,  I    have    here  a  jar  of  old   and 

precious  wine, 
The    years  which    mark   its   coming  from   the 

Alban  hills  are  nine, 
And   in   the   garden    parsley,  too,  for  wreathing   garlands 

fair, 
And  ivy  in  profusion  to  bind  up  your  shining  hair. 

Now  smiles  the  house  with  silver ;  the  altar,  laurel-bound, 
Longs  with  the  sacrificial  blood  of  lambs  to  drip  around ; 
The  company  is  hurrying,  boys  and  maidens  with  the 

rest; 
The  flames   are  flickering  as  they  whirl  the   dark   smoke 

on  their  crest. 


TO  PHYLLIS.  91 

Yet   you   must   know  the  joys   to  which   you   have   been 

summoned  here 

To  keep  the  Ides  of  April,  to  the  sea-born  Venus  dear,  — 
Ah,  festal   day    more    sacred    than    my  own   fair   day   of 

birth, 
Since  from  its  dawn  my  loved  Maecenas  counts  his  years 

of  earth. 

A  rich  and  wanton  girl  has  caught,  as  suited  to  her  mind, 
The   Telephus  whom    you  desire,  —  a  youth  not    of  your 

kind. 
She  holds  him  bound  with  pleasing  chains,  the  fetters  of 

her  charms,  — 
Remember    how    scorched     Phaethon     ambitious     hopes 

alarms. 

The  winged  Pegasus  the  rash  Bellerophon  has  chafed, 
To  you  a  grave  example  for  reflection  has  vouchsafed,  — 
Always  to  follow  what  is  meet,  and  never  try  to  catch 
That    which    is    not    allowed    to    you,    an    inappropriate 
match. 


92  ECHOES  PROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Come  now,  sweet  Phyllis,  of  my  loves  the  last,  and  hence 

the  best 
(For    nevermore    shall    other    girls    inflame   this    manly 

breast)  ; 
Learn    loving    measures    to    rehearse    as   we    may  stroll 

along, 
And    dismal    cares    shall    fly    away    and   vanish    at   your 

song. 


TO    CHLOE. 

I. 

HY  do  you  shun  me,  Chloe,  like  the  fawn, 

That,  fearful  of  the  breezes  and  the  wood, 
Has  sought  her  timorous  mother  since  the  dawn, 


And  on  the  pathless  mountain  tops  has  stood? 

Her  trembling  heart  a  thousand  fears  invites, 
Her  sinking  knees  with  nameless  terrors  shake, 

Whether  the  rustling  leaf  of  spring  affrights, 

Or  the  green  lizards  stir  the  slumbering  brake. 


I  do  net  follow  with  a  tigerish  thought 
Or  with  the  fierce  Gaetulian  lion's  quest; 

So,  quickly  leave  your  mother,  as  you  ought, 
Full  ripe  to  nestle  on  a  husband's  breast. 


TO    CHLOE. 

II. 

HLOE,  you  shun  me  like  a  hind 

That,  seeking  vainly  for  her  mother, 
Hears  danger  in  each  breath  of  wind, 
And  wildly  darts  this  way  and  t'  other ; 


Whether  the  breezes  sway  the  wood 
Or  lizards  scuttle  through  the  brambles, 

She  starts,  and  off,  as  though  pursued, 
The  foolish,  frightened  creature  scrambles. 


But,  Chloe.  you  're  no  infant  thing 
That  should  esteem  a  man  an  ogre ; 

Let  go  your  mother's  apron-string 
And  pin  your  faith  upon  a  toga  ! 


III. 

A    PARAPHRASE. 

OW  happens  it,  my  cruel  miss, 

You  're  always  giving  me  the  mitten? 
You  seem  to  have  forgotten  this : 
That  you  no  longer  are  a  kitten  ! 


A  woman  that  has  reached  the  years 
Of  that  which  people  call  discretion 

Should  put  aside  all  childish  fears 

And  see  in  courtship  no  transgression. 

A  mother's  solace  may  be  sweet, 
But  Hymen's  tenderness  is  sweeter; 

And  though  all  virile  love  be  meet, 
You  '11  find  the  poet's  love  is  metre. 


IV 

A   PARAPHRASE,    CIRCA 

INCE  Chloe  is  so  monstrous  fair, 
With  such  an  eye  and  such  an  air, 
What  wonder  that  the  world  complains 
When  she  each  am'rous  suit  disdains? 


Close  to  her  mother's  side  she  clings, 
And  mocks  the  death  her  folly  brings 
To  gentle  swains  that  feel  the  smarts 
Her  eyes  inflict  upon  their  hearts. 


Whilst  thus  the  years  of  youth  go  by, 
Shall  Colin  languish,  Strephon  die? 
Nay,  cruel  nymph  !    come,  choose  a  mate, 
And  choose  him  ere  it  be  too  late ! 


V. 

A   PARAPHRASE,    BY    DR.    I.    W. 

HY,  Mistress  Chloe,  do  you  bother 

With  prattlings  and  with  vain  ado 
Your  worthy  and  industrious  mother, 
Eschewing  them  that  come  to  woo? 


Oh,  that  the  awful  truth  might  quicken 
This  stern  conviction  to  your  breast : 

You  are  no  longer  now  a  chicken 
Too  young  to  quit  the  parent  nest. 


So  put  aside  your  froward  carriage 

And  fix  your  thoughts,  whilst  yet  there's  time, 
Upon  the  righteousness  of  marriage 

With  some  such  godly  man  as  I  'm. 


VI. 

A    PARAPHRASE,    BY    CHAUCER. 

|YN  that  you,  Chloe,  to  your  moder  sticken, 
Maketh  all  ye  yonge  bacheloures  full  sicken ; 
Like  as  a  lyttel  deere  you  ben  y-hiding 
Whenas  come  lovers  with  theyre  pityse  chiding. 
Sothly  it  ben  faire  to  give  up  your  moder 
For  to  beare  swete  company  with  some  oder; 
Your  moder  ben  well  enow  so  farre  shee  goeth, 
But  that  ben  not  farre  enow,  God  knoweth ; 
Wherefore  it  ben  sayed  that  foolysh  ladyes 
That  marrye  not  shall  leade  an  aype  in  Hadys ; 
But  all  that  do  with  gode  men  wed  full  quicklye 
When  that  they  be  on  dead  go  to  ye  seints  full  sickerly. 


TO  M>ECENAS. 

HAN  you,  O  valued  friend  of  mine, 

A  better  patron  non  est ! 
Come,  quaff  my  home-made  Sabine  wine, 
You  '11  find  it  poor  but  honest. 


I  put  it  up  that  famous  day 

You  patronized  the  ballet, 
And  the  public  cheered  you  such  a  way 

As  shook  your  native  valley. 

Caecuban  and  the  Calean  brand 
May  elsewhere  claim  attention ; 

But  /  have  none  of  these  on  hand,  — 
For  reasons  I  '11  not  mention. 


IOO  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

ENVOY. 

So,  come  !    though  favors  I  bestow 
Cannot  be  called  extensive, 

Who  better  than  my  friend  should  know 
That  they  're  at  least  expensive? 


TO   BARINE. 

|F  for  your  oath  broken,  or  word  lightly  spoken, 
A  plague  comes,  Barine,  to  grieve  you; 
If  on   tooth  or  on  finger  a  black  mark   shall 

linger 
Your  beauty  to  mar,  I  '11  believe  you. 

But  no  sooner,  the  fact  is,  you  bind,  as  your  tact  is, 

Your  head  with  the  vows  of  untruth, 

Than  you  shine   out   more   charming,  and,  what  's   more 

alarming, 
You  come  forth  beloved  of  our  youth. 

It  is  advantageous,  but  no  less  outrageous, 
Your  poor  mother's  ashes  to  cheat ; 
While  the  gods  of  creation  and  each  constellation 
You  seem  to  regard  as  your  meat. 


1O2  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Now  Venus,  I  own  it,  is  pleased  to  condone  it; 
The  good-natured  nymphs  merely  smile  ; 
And  Cupid  is  merry,  —  't  is  humorous,  very,  — 
And  sharpens  his  arrows  the  while. 

Our  boys  you  are  making  the  slaves  for  your  taking, 
A  new  band  is  joined  to  the  old: 
While  the  horrified  matrons  your  juvenile  patrons 
In  vain  would  bring  back  to  the  fold. 

The  thrifty  old  fellows  your  loveliness  mellows 
Confess  to  a  dread  of  your  house ; 
But  a  more  pressing  duty,  in  view  of  your  beauty, 
Is  the  young  wife's  concern  for  her  spouse. 


THE   RECONCILIATION. 
I. 

HE. 

(HEN  you  were  mine,  in  auld  lang  syne, 

P 

And  when  none  else  your  charms  might 

ogle, 

I  '11  not  deny,  fair  nymph,  that  I 
Was  happier  than  a  heathen  mogul. 


SHE. 

Before  she  came,  that  rival  flame 
(Had  ever  mater  saucier  filia?), 

In  those  good  times,  bepraised  in  rhymes, 
I  was  more  famed  than  Mother  Ilia. 


IO4       ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

\ 

HE. 

Chloe  of  Thrace  !     With  what  a  grace 
Does  she  at  song  or  harp  employ  her  ! 

I  'd  gladly  die,  if  only  I 

Could  live  forever  to  enjoy  her ! 

SHE. 
My  Sybaris  so  noble  is 

That,  by  the  gods,  I  love  him  madly ! 
That  I  might  save  him  from  the  grave, 
I  'd  give  my  life,  and  give  it  gladly  ! 

HE. 

What  if  ma  belle  from  favor  fell, 

And  I  made  up  my  mind  to  shake  her ; 

Would  Lydia  then  come  back  again, 
And  to  her  quondam  love  betake  her? 

SHE. 

My  other  beau  should  surely  go, 

And  you  alone  should  find  me  gracious ; 

For  no  one  slings  such  odes  and  things 
As  does  the  lauriger  Horatius  ! 


THE  RECONCILIATION. 
II. 

HORACE. 

HILE  favored  by  thy  smiles  no  other  youth  in 

amorous  teasing 

Around  thy  snowy  neck  his  folding  arms  was 
wont  to  fling ; 

As  long  as  I  remained  your  love,  acceptable  and  pleasing, 
I  lived  a  life  of  happiness  beyond  the  Persian  king. 

LYDIA. 

While  Lydia  ranked  Chloe  in  your  unreserved  opinion, 
And    for   no    other   cherished   thou   a   brighter,  livelier 

flame, 

I,  Lydia,  distinguished  throughout  the  whole  dominion, 
Surpassed  the  Roman  Ilia  in  eminence  of  fame. 


IO6  ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

HORACE. 

'T  is    now   the    Thracian    Chloe    whose    accomplishments 

inthrall  me,  — 

So  sweet  in  modulations,  such  a  mistress  of  the  lyre. 
In  truth  the  fates,  however  terrible,  could  not  appal,  me ; 
If   they    would    spare    her,    sweet    my    soul,    I    gladly 
would  expire. 

LYDIA. 

And  now  the  son  of  Ornytus,  young  Calais,  inflames  me 

With  mutual,  restless  passion  and  an  all-consuming  fire ; 

And  if  the  fates,  however  dread,  would  spare  the   youth 

who  claims  me, 

Not  only  once  would   I  face   death,  but  gladly  twice 
expire. 

HORACE. 

What  if  our  early  love  returns  to  prove  we  were  mistaken 
And  bind   with  brazen    yoke   the   twain,   to   part,   ah ! 

nevermore  ? 

What  if  the  charming  Chloe  of  the  golden  locks  be  shaken 
And  slighted  Lydia  again  glide  through  the  open  door? 


THE  RECONCILIATION.  IO/ 

LYDIA. 

Though    he    is    fairer   than    the    star   that    shines    so    far 

above  you, 
Thou  lighter  than  a  cork,  more  stormy  than  the  Adrian 

Sea, 
Still  should  I  long   to  live  with  you,  to  live  for  you  and 

love  you, 

And  cheerfully  see  death's  approach  if  thou  wert  near 
to  me. 


THE   ROASTING  OF   LYDIA. 

O  more  your  needed  rest  at  night 
By  ribald  youth  is  troubled ; 
No  more  your  windows,  fastened  tight, 
Yield  to  their  knocks  redoubled. 


No  longer  you  may  hear  them  cry, 
"Why  art  thou,  Lydia,  lying 

In  heavy  sleep  till  morn  is  nigh, 
While  I,  your  love,  am  dying  ? " 


Grown  old  and  faded  you  bewail 

The  rake's  insulting  sally, 
While  round  your  home  the  Thracian  gale 

Storms  through  the  lonely  alley. 


THE  ROASTING   OF  LYDIA.  IO<> 

What  furious  thoughts  will  fill  your  breast, 

What  passions,  fierce  and  tinglish 
(Cannot  be  properly  expressed 

In  calm,  reposeful  English.) 

Learn  this,  and  hold  your  carping  tongue : 

Youth  will  be  found  rejoicing 
In  ivy  green  and  myrtle  young, 

The  praise  of  fresh  life  voicing ; 

And  not  content  to  dedicate, 

With  much  protesting  shiver, 
The  sapless  leaves  to  winter's  mate, 

Hebrus,  the  cold  dark  river. 


TO  GLYCERA. 

cruel  mother  of  the  Loves, 
And  other  Powers  offended, 
Have  stirred  my  heart,  where  newly  roves 
The  passion  that  was  ended. 


Tis  Glycera,  to  boldness  prone, 
Whose  radiant  beauty  fires  me; 

While  fairer  than  the  Parian  stone 
Her  dazzling  face  inspires  me. 


And  on  from  Cyprus  Venus  speeds, 
Forbidding  —  ah  !  the  pity  — 

The  Scythian  lays,  the  Parthian  meeds, 
And  such  irrelevant  ditty. 


TO  GLYCERA.  Ill 

Here,  boys,  bring  turf  and  vervain  too; 

Have  bowls  of  wine  adjacent ; 
And  ere  our  sacrifice  is  through 

She  may  be  more  complaisant. 


TO   LYDIA. 

I. 
HEN,  Lydia,  you  (once  fond  and  true, 

But  now  grown  cold  and  supercilious) 
Praise  Telly's  charms  of  neck  and  arms- 
Well,  by  the  dog !  it  makes  me  bilious  ! 


Then  with  despite  my  cheeks  wax  white, 
My  doddering  brain  gets  weak  and  giddy, 

My  eyes  o'erflow  with  tears  which  show 
That  passion  melts  my  vitals,  Liddy  ! 

Deny,  false  jade,  your  escapade, 

And,  lo  !  your  wounded  shoulders  show  it  I 
No  manly  spark  left  such  a  mark  — 

Leastwise  he  surely  was  no  poet ! 


TO  LYDIA.  113 

With  savage  buss  did  Telephus 

Abraid  your  lips,  so  plump  and  mellow; 

As  you  would  save  what  Venus  gave, 
I  charge  you  shun  that  awkward  fellow  ! 

And  now  I  say  thrice  happy  they 
That  call  on  Hymen  to  requite  'em ; 

For,  though  love  cools,  the  wedded  fools 
Must  cleave  'til  death  doth  disunite  'em  ! 


TO   LYDIA. 

II. 

HEN  praising  Telephus  you  sing 
His  rosy  neck  and  waxen  arras, 
Forgetful  of  the  pangs  that  wring 
This  heart  for  my  neglected  charms, 

Soft  down  my  cheek  the  tear-drop  flows, 
My  color  comes  and  goes  the  while, 
And  my  rebellious  liver  glows, 
And  fiercely  swells  with  laboring  bile. 


Perchance  yon  silly,  passionate  youth, 
Distempered  by  the  fumes  of  wine, 
Has  marred  your  shoulder  with  his  tooth, 
Or  scarred  those  rosy  lips  of  thine. 


TO  LYDIA.  115 

Be  warned;  he  cannot  faithful  prove, 
Who,  with  the  cruel  kiss  you  prize, 
Has  hurt  the  little  mouth  I  love, 
Where  Venus's  own  nectar  lies. 

Whom  golden  links  unbroken  bind, 
Thrice  happy  —  more  than  thrice  are  they; 
And  constant,  both  in  hea'rt  and  mind, 
In  love  await  the  final  day. 


TO  QUINTIUS  HIRPINUS. 

JO  Scythian  and  Cantabrian  plots 

Pay  them  no  heed,  O  Quintius  ! 

So  long  as  we 
From  care  are  free, 
Vexations  cannot  cinch  us. 


Unwrinkled  youth  and  grace,  forsooth, 
Speed  hand  in  hand  together; 

The  songs  we  sing 

In  time  of  spring 
Are  hushed  in  wintry  weather. 


"Why,  even  flow'rs  change  with  the  hours, 
And  the  moon  has  divers  phases ; 


TO  QUINTIUS  HI R PIN  US.  I  I/ 

And  shall  the  mind 
Be  racked  to  find 
A  clew  to  Fortune's  mazes? 

Nay;  'neath  this  tree  let  you  and  me 
Woo  Bacchus  to  caress  us ; 

We  're  old,  't  is  true, 

But  still  we  two 
Are  thoroughbreds,  God  bless  us  ! 

While  the  wine  gets  cool  in  yonder  pool, 
Let 's  spruce  up  nice  and  tidy ; 

Who  knows,  old  boy, 

But  we  may  decoy 
The  fair  but  furtive  Lyde? 

She  can  execute  on  her  ivory  lute 
Sonatas  full  of  passion, 
And  she  bangs  her  hair 
(Which  is  passing  fair) 
In  the  good  old  Spartan  fashion. 


WINE,  WOMEN,   AND  SONG. 

VARUS  mine, 

Plant  thou  the  vine 
Within  this  kindly  soil  of  Tibur ; 
Nor  temporal  woes, 
Nor  spiritual,  knows 
The  man  who  's  a  discreet  imbiber. 
For  who  doth  croak 
Of  being  broke, 

Or  who  of  warfare,  after  drinking? 
With  bowl  atween  us, 
Of  smiling  Venus 
And  Bacchus  shall  we  sing,  I  'm  thinking. 


WINE,    WOMEN,  AND  SONG.  1 19 

Of  symptoms  fell 

Which  brawls  impel, 
Historic  data  give  us  warning; 

The  wretch  who  fights 

When  full,  of  nights, 
Is  bound  to  have  a  head  next  morning. 

I  do  not  scorn 

A  friendly  horn, 
But  noisy  toots,  1  can't  abide  'em  ! 

Your  howling  bat 

Is  stale  and  flat 
To  one  who  knows,  because  he  's  tried  'em  ! 

The  secrets  of 

The  life  I  love 
(Companionship  with  girls  and  toddy) 

I  would  not  drag 

With  drunken  brag 
Into  the  ken  of  everybody; 

But  in  the  shade 

Let  some  coy  maid 


I2O       ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

With  smilax  wreathe  my  flagon's  nozzle, 
Then  all  day  long, 
With  mirth  and  song, 

Shall  I  enjoy  a  quiet  sozzle  ! 


AN   ODE   TO   FORTUNE. 

LADY  FORTUNE  !  't  is  to  thee  I  call, 
Dwelling  at  Antium,  thou  hast  power  to  crown 
The  veriest  clod  with  riches  and  renown, 
And  change  a  triumph  to  a  funeral. 
The  tillers  of  the  soil  and  they  that  vex  the  seas, 
Confessing  thee  supreme,  on  bended  knees 
Invoke  thee,  all. 

Of  Dacian  tribes,  of  roving  Scythian  bands, 
Of  cities,  nations,  lawless  tyrants  red 
With  guiltless  blood,  art  thou  the  haunting  dread ; 

Within  thy  path  no  human  valor  stands, 
And,  arbiter  of  empires,  at  thy  frown 
The  sceptre,  once  supreme,  slips  surely  down 

From  kingly  hands. 


122  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Necessity  precedes  thee  in  thy  way; 
Hope  fawns  on  thee,  and  Honor,  too,  is  seen 
Dancing  attendance  with  obsequious  mien ; 

But  with  what  coward  and  abject  dismay 
The  faithless  crowd  and  treacherous  wantons  fly 
When  once  their  jars  of  luscious  wine  run  dry, — 

Such  ingrates  they ! 

Fortune,  I  call  on  thee  to  bless 
Our  king,  —  our  Caesar  girt  for  foreign  wars ! 
Help  him  to  heal  these  fratricidal  scars 

That  speak  degenerate  shame  and  wickedness ; 
And  forge  anew  our  impious  spears  and  swords, 
Wherewith  we  may  against  barbarian  hordes 

Our  Past  redress  ! 


TO   A   JAR   OF  WINE. 

GRACIOUS  jar,  —  my  friend,  my  twin, 

Born  at  the  time  when  I  was  born,  - 
Whether  tomfoolery  you  inspire 
Or  animate  with  love's  desire, 

Or  flame  the  soul  with  bitter  scorn, 
Or  lull  to  sleep,  O  jar  of  mine  ! 

Come  from  your  place  this  festal  day; 
Corvinus  hither  wends  his  way, 
And  there  's  demand  for  wine  ! 

Corvinus  is  the  sort  of  man 

Who  dotes  on  tedious  argument. 

An  advocate,  his  ponderous  pate 
Is  full  of  Blackstone  and  of  Kent; 

Yet  not  insensible  is  he, 

O  genial  Massic  flood  !  to  thee. 


124  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Why,  even  Cato  used  to  take 
A  modest,  surreptitious  nip 

At  meal- times  for  his  stomach's  sake, 
Or  to  forefend  la  grippe. 

How  dost  thou  melt  the  stoniest  hearts, 
And  bare  the  cruel  knave's  design; 

How  through  thy  fascinating  arts 

We  discount  Hope,  O  gracious  wine  ! 

And  passing  rich  the  poor  man  feels 

As  through  his  veins  thy  affluence  steals. 

Now,  prithee,  make  us  frisk  and  sing, 
And  plot  full  many  a  naughty  plot 

With  damsels  fair  —  nor  shall  we  care 
Whether  school  keeps  or  not ! 

And  whilst  thy  charms  hold  out  to  burn 
We  shall  not  deign  to  go  to  bed, 
But  we  shall  paint  creation  red ; 

So,  fill,  sweet  wine,  this  friend  of  mine, - 
My  lawyer  friend,  as  aforesaid. 


TO   POMPEIUS   VARUS. 

OMPEY,  what  fortune  gives  you  back 

To  the  friends  and  the  gods  who  love  you  ? 
Once  more  you  stand  in  your  native  land, 
With  your  native  sky  above  you. 
Ah,  side  by  side,  in  years  agone, 
We  've  faced  tempestuous  weather, 
And  often  quaffed 
The  genial  draught 
From  the  same  canteen  together. 

When  honor  at  Phillippi  fell 

A  prey  to  brutal  passion, 
I  regret  to  say  that  my  feet  ran  away 

In  swift  Iambic  fashion. 


126  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

You  were  no  poet;   soldier  born, 
You  stayed,  nor  did  you  wince  then. 
Mercury  came 
To  my  help,  which  same 
Has  frequently  saved  me  since  then. 

But  now  you  're  back,  let  's  celebrate 

In  the  good  old  way  and  classic; 
Come,  let  us  lard  our  skins  with  nard, 

And  bedew  our  souls  with  Massic  ! 
With  fillets  of  green  parsley  leaves 
Our  foreheads  shall  be  done  up; 
And  with  song  shall  we 
Protract  our  spree 
Until  the  morrow's  sun-up. 


THE  POET'S   METAMORPHOSIS. 

/ECENAS,  I  propose  to  fly 

To  realms  beyond  these  human  portals; 
No  common  things  shall  be  my  wings, 
But  such  as  sprout  upon  immortals. 

Of  lowly  birth,  once  shed  of  earth, 

Your  Horace,  precious  (so  you  Ve  told  him), 

Shall  soar  away ;    no  tomb  of  clay 

Nor  Stygian  prison-house  shall  hold  him. 

Upon  my  skin  feathers  begin 

To  warn  the  songster  of   his  fleeting; 

But  never  mind,  I  leave  behind 

Songs  all  the  world  shall  keep  repeating. 


128  ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Lo  !  Boston  girls,  with  corkscrew  curls, 
And  husky  westerns,  wild  and  woolly, 

And  southern  climes  shall  vaunt  my  rhymes, 
And  all  profess  to  know  me  fully. 

Methinks  the  West  shall  know  me  best, 
And  therefore  hold  my  memory  dearer; 

For  by  that  lake  a  bard  shall  make 
My  subtle,  hidden  meanings  clearer. 

So  cherished,  I  shall  never  die; 

Pray,  therefore,  spare  your  dolesome  praises, 
Your  elegies,  and  plaintive  cries, 

For  I  shall  fertilize  no  daisies  ! 


TO    VENUS. 


ENUS,  dear  Cnidian-Paphian  queen  ! 

Desert  that  Cyprus  way  off  yonder, 
And  fare  you  hence,  where  with  incense 
My  Glycera  would  have  you  fonder; 
And  to  your  joy  bring  hence  your  boy, 

The  Graces  with  unbelted  laughter, 
The  Nymphs,  and  Youth,  —  then,  then,  in  sooth, 
Should  Mercury  come  tagging  after. 


IN    THE    SPRINGTIME. 

I. 

IS  spring !     The  boats  bound  to  the  sea ; 

The  breezes,  loitering  kindly  over 
The  fields,  again  bring  herds  and  men 
The  grateful  cheer  of  honeyed  clover. 

.Now  Venus  hither  leads  her  train; 

The  Nymphs  and  Graces  join  in  orgies; 
The  moon  is  bright,  and  by  her  light 

Old  Vulcan  kindles  up  his  forges. 

Bind  myrtle  now  about  your  brow, 

And  weave  fair  flowers  in  maiden  tresses; 

Appease  god  Pan,  who,  kind  to  man, 
Our  fleeting  life  with  affluence  blesses; 


IN  THE  SPRINGTIME. 

But  let  the  changing  seasons  mind  us 

That  Death  's  the  certain  doom  of  mortals, 

Grim  Death,  who  waits  at  humble  gates, 
And  likewise  stalks  through  kingly  portals. 

Soon,  Sestius,  shall  Plutonian  shades 

Enfold  you  with  their  hideous  seemings ; 

Then  love  and  mirth  and  joys  of  earth 
Shall  fade  away  like  fevered  dreamings. 


IN    THE    SPRINGTIME. 

II. 
HE  western   breeze   is   springing   up,  the   ships 

are  in  the  bay. 
And   spring   has   brought   a  happy  change   as 

winter  melts  away. 

No  more  in  stall  or  fire  the  herd  or  plowman  finds  delight ; 
No  longer  with  the  biting  frosts  the  open  fields  are  white. 


Our  Lady  of  Cythera  now  prepares  to  lead  the  dance, 
While  from    above    the   kindly  moon  gives  an   approving 

glance ; 
The  Nymphs  and  comely  Graces  join  with  Venus  and  the 

choir, 
And  Vulcan's   glowing  fancy  lightly  turns   to  thoughts   of 

fire. 


IN   THE  SPRINGTIME.  133 

Now  it  is  time  with  myrtle  green  to  crown  the  shining  pate, 
And  with  the  early  blossoms  of  the    spring  to  decorate; 
To  sacrifice  to  Faunus,  on  whose  favor  we  rely, 
A  sprightly  lamb,  mayhap  a  kid,  as  he  may  specify. 

Impartially  the  feet  of  Death  at  huts  and  castles  strike ; 
The  influenza  carries  off  the  rich  and  poor  alike. 
O  Sestius,  though  blest  you  are  beyond  the  common  run, 
Life  is  too  short  to  cherish  e'en  a  distant  hope  begun. 

The  Shades   and    Pluto's   mansion  follow  hard   upon    the 

grip- 
Once    there    you   cannot   throw   the   dice,    nor   taste  the 

wine  you  sip ; 
Nor    look     on    blooming     Lycidas,    whose    beauty    you 

commend, 
To  whom  the  girls  will  presently  their  courtesies  extend. 


TO    A    BULLY. 

OU,  blatant  coward  that  you  are, 

Upon  the  helpless  vent  your  spite. 
Suppose  you  ply  your  trade  on  me; 
Come,  monkey  with  this  bard,  and  see 
How  I  '11  repay  your  bark  with  bite  1 

Ay,  snarl  just  once  at  me,  you  brute ! 

And  I  shall  hound  you  far  and  wide,. 
As  fiercely  as  through  drifted  snow 
The  shepherd  dog  pursues  what  foe 

Skulks  on  the  Spartan  mountain-  side* 


TO  A  BULLY.  135 

The  chip  is  on  my  shoulder — see? 

But  touch  it  and  I  '11  raise  your  fur; 
I  'm  full  •  of  business,  so  beware  ! 
For,  though  I  'm  loaded  up  for  bear, 

I  'm  quite  as  like  to  kill  a  cur  ! 


TO    MOTHER    VENUS. 

MOTHER  VENUS,  quit,  I  pray, 

Your  violent  assailing ! 
The  arts,  forsooth,  that  fired  my  youth 
At  last  are  unavailing ; 
My  blood  runs  cold,  I  'm  getting  old, 
And  all  my  powers  are  failing. 

Speed  thou  upon  thy  white  swans'  wings, 
And  elsewhere  deign  to  mellow 

With  thy  soft  arts  the  anguished  hearts 
Of  swain  that  writhe  and  bellow ; 

And  right  away  seek  out,  I  pray, 
Young  Paullus,  —  he  's  your  fellow  ! 


TO  MOTHER    VENUS.  137 

You  '11  find  young  Paullus  passing  fair, 

Modest,  refined,  and  tony ; 
Go,  now,  incite  the  favored  wight ! 

With  Venus  for  a  crony 
He  '11  outshine  all  at  feast  and  ball 

And  conversazione  ! 


Then  shall  that  godlike  nose  of  thine 

With  perfumes  be  requited, 
And  then  shall  prance  in  Salian  dance 

The  girls  and  boys  delighted, 
And  while  the  lute  blends  with  the  flute 

Shall  tender  loves  be   plighted. 

But  as  for  me,  as  you  can  see, 
I  'm  getting  old  and  spiteful. 

I  have  no  mind  to  female  kind, 
That  once  I  deemed  delightful ; 

No  more  brim  up  the  festive  cup 
That  sent  me  home  at  night  full. 


138  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Why  do  I  falter  in  my  speech, 

O  cruel  Ligurine? 
Why  do  I  chase  from  place  to  place 

In  weather  wet  and  shiny? 
Why  down  my  nose  forever  flows 

The  tear  that  's  cold  and  briny? 


TO    LYDIA. 

ELL  me,  Lydia,  tell  me  why, 

By  the  gods  that  dwell  above, 
Sybaris  makes  haste  to  die 
Through  your  cruel,  fatal  love. 


Now  he  hates  the  sunny  plain; 

Once  he  loved  its  dust  and  heat. 
Now  no  more  he  leads  the  train 

Of  his  peers  on  coursers  fleet. 

Now  he  dreads  the  Tiber's  touch, 
And  avoids  the  wrestling-rings,  — 

He  who  formerly  was  such 

An  expert  with  quoits  and  things. 


1 4O       ECHOES  FROM  THE  SAB1NE  FARM. 

Come,  now,  Mistress  Lydia,  say 
Why  your  Sybaris  lies  hid, 

Why  he  shuns  the  martial  play, 
As  we  're  told  Achilles  did. 


TO    NEOBULE. 

SORRY    life,    forsooth,    these    wretched    girls 

are  undergoing, 
Restrained    from    draughts   of    pleasant   wine, 

from  loving  favors  showing, 
For  fear  an  uncle's  tongue  a  reprimand  will  be  bestowing  I 

Sweet  Cytherea's  winged  boy  deprives  you  of  your  spinning. 
And  Hebrus,  Neobule,  his  sad  havoc  is  beginning, 
Just  as  Minerva  thriftily  gets  ready  for  an  inning. 


Who  could  resist  this  gallant   youth,  as  Tiber's  waves  he 

breasted, 

Or  when  the  palm  of  riding  from  Bellerophon  he  wrested, 
Or  when  with  fists  and  feet  the  sluggers  easily  he  bested  ? 


I42       ECHOES  FROM  THE  SABINE  FARM. 

He  shot  the  fleeing  stags  with  regularity  surprising ; 
The     way     he     intercepted     boars     was     quite      beyond 

surmising,  — 
No    wonder    that    your    thoughts    this    youth    has    been 

monopolizing  ! 

So    I    repeat    that   with    these    maids    fate    is    unkindly 

dealing, 
Who  never  can  in  love's  affair  give  license  to  their 

feeling, 
Or  share  those  sweet  emotions  when  a  gentle  jag  is 

stealing. 


AT  THE  BALL  GAME. 

HAT   gods  or  heroes,  whose  brave  deeds   none 

can  dispute, 
Will    you    record,   O    Clio,    on   the   harp  and 

flute? 

What  lofty  names  shall  sportive  Echo  grant  a  place 
On  Pindus'  crown  or  Helicon's  cool,  shadowy  space? 


Sing  not,  my  Orpheus,  sweeping  oft  the  tuneful  strings, 
Of    gliding    streams    and   nimble   winds   and    such   poor 

things ; 

But  lend  your  measures  to  a  theme  of  noble  thought, 
And  crown  with  laurel  these  great  heroes,  as  you  ought. 


144  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

Now  steps  Ryanus  forth  at  call  of  furious  Mars, 

And  from  his  oaken  staff  the  sphere  speeds  to  the  stars; 

And  now  he  gains  the  tertiary  goal,  and  turns, 

While  whiskered  balls  play  round  the  timid  staff  of  Burns. 


Lo  !  from  the  tribunes  on  the  bleachers  comes  a  shout, 

Beseeching  bold  Ansonius  to  line  'em  out; 

And  as  Apollo's  flying  chariot  cleaves  the  sky, 

So  stanch  Ansonius  lifts  the  frightened  ball  on  high. 


Like  roar  of  ocean  beating  on  the  Cretan  cliff, 
The  strong  Komiske  gives  the  panting  sphere  a  biff; 
And  from  the  tribunes  rise  loud  murmurs  everywhere, 
When  twice  and  thrice  Mikellius  beats  the  mocking  air. 


And  as  Achilles'  fleet  the  Trojan  waters  sweeps, 
So  horror  sways  the  throng,  —  Pfefferius  sleeps  ! 
And  stalwart  Konnor,  though  by  Mercury  inspired, 
The  Equus  Carolus  defies,  and  is  retired. 


AT   THE  BALL   GAME.  1 45 

So  waxes  fierce  the  strife  between  these  godlike  men; 
And  as  the  hero's  fame  grows  by  Virgilian  pen, 
.So  let  Clarksonius  Maximus  be  raised  to  heights 
As  far  above  the  moon  as  moon  o'er  lesser  lights. 


But  as  for  me,  the  ivy  leaf  is  my  reward, 
If  you  a  place  among  the  lyric  bards  accord  ; 
With  crest  exalted,  and,  O  "People,"  with  delight, 
I  '11  proudly  strike  the  stars,  and  so  be  out  of  sight. 


HE  day  is  done ;    and,  lo  !    the  shades 
Melt  'neath  Diana's  mellow  grace. 
Hark,  how  those  deep,  designing  maids 
Feign  terror  in  this  sylvan  place  ! 
Come,  friends,  't  is  time  that  we  should  go ; 
We  're  honest  married  folk,  you  know. 


Was  not  the  wine  delicious  cool 

Whose  sweetness  Pyrrha's  smile  enhanced? 
And  by  that  clear  Bandusian  pool 

How  gayly  Chloe  sung  and  danced  ! 
And  Lydia  Die,  —  aha,  methinks 
You  '11  not  forget  the  saucy  minx  ! 


J48  ECHOES  FROM   THE  SABINE  FARM. 

But,  oh,  the  echoes  of  those  songs 

That  soothed  our  cares  and  lulled  our  hearts ! 
Not  to  that  age  nor  this  belongs 

The  glory  of  what  heaven-born  arts 
Speak  with  the  old  distinctive  charm 
From  yonder  humble  Sabine  farm  ! 

The  day  is  done.     Now  off  to  bed, 
Lest  by  some  rural  ruse  surprised, 

And  by  those  artful  girls  misled, 
You  two  be  sadly  compromised. 

You  go;  perhaps  I'd  better  stay 

To  shoo  the  giddy  things  away ! 

But  sometime  we  shall  meet  again 
Beside  Digentia,  cool  and  clear, — 

You  and  we  twain,  old  friend;    and  then 
We  '11  have  our  fill  of  pagan  cheer. 

Then,  could  old  Horace  join  us  three, 

How  proud  and  happy  he  would  be  ! 


EPILOGUE.  149 

Or  if  we  part  to  meet  no  more 

This  side  the  misty  Stygian  Sea, 
Be  sure  of  this :    on  yonder  shore 

Sweet  cheer  awaiteth  such  as  we ; 
A  Sabine  pagan's  heaven,  O  friend,  — 
The  fellowship  that  knows  no  end  ! 

E.  F. 


547F-3 


DATE  DUE 


ir~ 

;^y 

2  9  72 

RECD  MA 

'  2     1972 

RPI1 

<  •,  LJ  M  / 

.f\f\t 

k 

Mil 

*  i  ?5 

'•••fit* 

RFC'D 

MM  03  Viftq 

jt'T' 

v 

CAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  O-S.  A. 

31970007863316 


A  A      000305820    3 


